


Un Malentendu

by The Young Bear (ribbonsofriver)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Humor, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbonsofriver/pseuds/The%20Young%20Bear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pippin stumbles upon a deadly secret, and Cersei takes it upon herself to silence him. The hobbit, with his unassuming innocence and loveable demeanour, proves more difficult to kill than Cersei could have imagined. Has the Queen finally met her match?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cersei Lannister and Peregrin Took are two of my favourite fictional characters of all time, and I adore crossovers. So, naturally, I came up with this. Hopefully it's the first in a long series of crossovers involving my favourite characters and their comical interactions. Enjoy <3

After a long eve of exhaustive debauchery, Robert Baratheon at last succumbed to a wine-sodden slumber. The night, or what precious, fleeting hours remained, belonged to Cersei. She slipped into a robe and padded softly towards the door.  
Before taking her leave, Cersei paused and regarded her husband with distaste. Once a fine warrior, the King of the Seven Kingdoms had been reduced to this: a bloated, slatternly oaf, the bedclothes twisted about his sweating, hulking form. The foul stench of wine and venison hung upon his breath, and thick spittle pooled in the corners of his mouth. Coarse, black hair sprouted from his chest and between his legs, where his flaccid cock lay limply. A fine spray of his own seed clung stickily to his stomach. _He is a witless brute,_ thought Cersei, _but I needn't suffer him again until daybreak._ She slipped noiselessly out of her chambers and into the night.  
Jaime was waiting for her in one of the unoccupied solars in Maegor's Holdfast.  
They said nothing to one another. They had no need for words.  
With practised hands, Jaime deftly unlaced her bodice and cast it aside. Her own hands found his breeches and slipped beneath the waistband, encircling his cock, feeling it harden beneath her fingertips. Jaime's thumbs circled her pebbled nipples, stroking and kneading; his mouth was at the shell of her ear, planting torrid kisses there.  
“Jaime,” she moaned urgently.  
Naked in the flickering candlelight, Cersei was beautiful; pale and golden. She lowered herself upon hands and knees, and bared her womanhood to him. Yielded herself. Her green eyes invited him. Jaime slipped in behind her.  
There was no sound but the distant, crashing waves of the Blackwater, and their intermingled moans and whispering sighs. The air smelt of the sea and jasmine flowers, of sweat and sex.  
Lost to sweet enrapture, it took Cersei a moment to recognise that the door had opened just a sliver, and that a curious face was peering in at them. An impish face with laughing green eyes, pointed ears, and auburn-and-golden hair. Cersei's heart leapt in her chest.  
“Stop!” she cried with a start. Jaime froze in place behind her.  
“Hello,” the face greeted them cheerily. “I was just looking for the kitchen. My apologies!”  
The face withdrew into shadow. Lightning-quick, Jaime leapt to his feet and found his sword-belt. He unsheathed his weapon and stalked into the hall, where he was met only with emptiness. The curious visage had vanished, like the fragments of some otherworldly dream.  
“What was that creature?” puzzled Jaime. “Where did it go?”  
“I mislike this enormously,” worried Cersei. She twisted the sleeves of her robe between her slender fingers. “We must seek out that ill-made thing and destroy it.”  
Tenderly, Jaime embraced her, threading his fingers through her hair. But, even in Jaime's embrace, her sacred haven, Cersei felt threatened and small. _It is not meet for a daughter of Tywin Lannister to be afraid,_ she told herself, as she shivered in her brother's arms. _I will resolve this as my Lord father would._  
 _I will resolve this like a queen._


	2. Chapter 2

By dawn, Cersei had a name.  
She sent out a summons and waited, sipping at sweet-wine and resting her bared feet on a cushion. The summer heat warmed the room, filling it with yellow light. Cersei felt strangely composed.  
Presently they brought him to her – not kicking and struggling, as she had imagined, but smiling and chatting amiably with his escorts. His defiance irked her. _He is laughing in my face,_ she realised bitterly. Any intention she might have entertained of paying for his silence fled her mind. _**He** will be the one to pay for his silence,_ she decided.  
“Sit down, my halfling,” she said with icy courtesy.  
He seated himself across from her and, uninvited, poured himself a glass from her pitcher of sweet-wine. Cersei ground her teeth.  
“Peregrin Took. A hobbit of the Shire,” she began. “And not just any hobbit.” She leaned forward and gave him a predatory smile. “The Thain's heir.”  
Cersei had hoped that her knowledge of who he was and where he came from might daunt him. Instead, the halfling smiled stupidly.  
“Aye, I am Peregrin Took, Your Grace.” He grinned. “Though, my friends call me 'Pippin', or 'Pip'.”  
“Peregrin Took,” she said deliberately, “in light of...” Cersei paused, struggling to find the right words. “...erm, in light of what transpired last night, I should like to clear the air. Would you dine with me tonight?”  
“Dine? With you, Your Grace?” Pippin flushed pleasurably.  
Cersei smiled haughtily. _Of course the fool is pleased to dine with me._  
In fact, Pippin was pleased by the notion of dining on royal cuisine. He had quite an ardour for food, as Cersei soon learned at supper.  
“You know,” the halfling was saying through a mouthful of food, “I am still in awe of how sparsely men eat. Three meals a day? I feel I would perish!”  
 _You will,_ Cersei promised inwardly. “Well, the last thing I want is a starved hobbit on my hands. Go forth,” she said venomously, “and take your fill. Eat, my halfling.”  
A splendid meal was laid before them, of roasted potatoes, pumpkin, and carrots; a fine plump goose; blackberry pie; salmon from the Blackwater, garnished with lemon; spiced orange cake; and mulled wine to wash it all down.  
The feast, of course, was tainted. Cersei had taken every precaution – there was Sweetsleep in the spiced cake; Tears of Lys in the halfling's cup; basilisk blood in the glaze on the goose; and a healthy dose of cyanide in the blackberry pie. The queen was nothing if not thorough.  
Still, the halfling ate. And ate. He ate with the resilience of twenty men. Cersei picked at her own pre-prepared dish – a light cockle soup – with growing impatience. The candles had near guttered out as Pippin ate the last of the blueberry pie, leaving a dark smudge on the tip of his nose.  
He reclined in his seat and sighed contentedly, patting his portly belly with both hands. “My thanks, Your Grace. That was lovely!”  
Cersei's eye twitched involuntarily. “You are most welcome,” she said nervously. _Why does he still live?!_  
“I have a stomach of iron,” he hiccuped, as though in answer. He stood to his feet, swaggering slightly, and Cersei smiled as she realised that Pippin was quite thoroughly intoxicated.  
“Come along, my friend,” she coaxed. “I want to show you something.”  
She led him, stumbling, to the highest turret in Maegor's Holdfast, where they stepped out onto the balcony and surveyed the night.  
“It is very beautiful, Your Grace,” admitted Pippin.  
“Yes,” mused Cersei, staring out onto the bottomless black waves, silver in the pale moonlight. “It would take a man of great skill and bravery to balance on the very edge.”  
“Why?” asked Pip, cocking his head to one side.  
“Because this ledge marks the precipice of life and death,” Cersei said. “It is the highest room in the Red Keep.”  
Just as she had hoped, Pippin clambered up eagerly. Cersei watched with glee as he stood shakily upon the balcony's ledge. But her hope began to dwindle as the hobbit found his balance and began to traipse to and fro on nimble feet. _He is like a performing monkey,_ she thought, vexed.  
Despite his large, awkward hobbit-feet, Pippin was swift and sure-footed. He walked the length of the ledge several times before pausing, swaying slightly as he did. Cersei hoped it was the deep breath before the plunge, so to speak, but the hobbit only gave her a sweeping bow. “Your Grace,” he said smugly, by way of conclusion, before hopping back down onto the balcony.  
Cersei could scarce find words. “I cannot believe it,” she remarked, astonished.  
Pippin blushed. “Thank you very much, Your Grace.”  
“I cannot conceive of how you achieved that,” said Cersei, caught between annoyance and awe. “You are in your cups!”  
“A life-time of petty theft and mischief has made me quite agile,” said Pippin, half-jokingly. “I've had plenty of experience balancing on precarious surfaces whilst drunk, Your Grace – mostly pub benches and picket fences, mind.”  
Cersei found that she was exhausted. _I will retire for the night, and see to this sorry creature's death in the morning. He is no threat for the moment. No-one will believe the word of a drunkard._ Cersei gave some thought to that – perhaps she could simply ply Pippin with wine every day until his word became disreputable. A yawn escaped her lips – she would have sleep on it.  
“Good night, my halfling friend,” said Cersei sweetly as she saw Peregrin to his chambers. “I am sure that our paths will cross again.”


	3. Chapter 3

The following days were trying.   
“The hobbit certainly seems to have a penchant for avoiding death,” said Cersei through gritted teeth. “Tell me again, dear brother, _why he isn't dead?!”_ Her voice rose angrily with every syllable.   
“I am sorry, sweet sister,” Jaime muttered at his feet. “I...I set out to kill him. On my honour.”   
“Your honour counts for naught,” snapped Cersei. “I told you not to come back here without his head.”   
“I was poised for the kill,” said Jaime defensively. “Truly. But...my will failed me.”   
“Your _will?”_ Cersei screeched. “You have slaughtered countless thousands, and now you tell me you haven't the stomach to kill one pox-ridden halfling?”   
“But Cersei,” reasoned Jaime, “he is wonderful. So very amiable and true, without the suffocating piety of men like Eddard Stark.” Jaime's eyes were faraway. “He even sang me a little song.”   
“Did he warm your bed and kiss your cheek?!” Cersei threw her horn of ale at him, narrowly missing his head as he ducked. “You simpering _woman._ Would that I had your cock, and you these damned breasts!” She hurled the pitcher at him. It collided with the door, shattering, as Jaime promptly made his exit. 

*** 

More problems ensued when they visited the armoury. Cersei had chosen the armoury because it was oft deserted. _Witnesses would be irksome,_ she thought. The queen had troubled to hire a sell-sword to do what her brother could not. Here in the armoury the sell-sword waited, veiled in shadow. The only hint of his presence was the gleaming silver tip of his crossbow.   
“Come; this way, my dear halfling.”   
“Did Jaime tell you about the song I wrote for him?” wondered Pip, munching on an apple.   
Cersei narrowed her eyes. “He might have mentioned it.”   
She paused strategically, the hobbit in prime position, and waited. There was a tense silence, and then, in a swift feline motion, Pippin picked up a gilded ivory breast-plate, belonging to some long-deceased member of the kingsguard.   
Pippin held the ornate armour before him, regarding it with awe – just as a bolt came hurtling towards him, ricocheting off the breast-plate with a metallic _clang._ Pippin gasped and leapt backwards.   
“What was that?” Pip cried. The halfling's eyes darted wildly around the armoury. Where the sell-sword had been, only shadows remained. “Did you hear that?”   
Cersei groaned and buried her head in her hands. “I didn't hear anything,” she muttered, defeated. 

*** 

Failure stalked Cersei like a shade.   
_Perhaps I have been going about it the wrong way,_ she reflected one evening. _Perhaps an accident is the way dispose of the halfling. He is becoming most burdensome._   
With that in mind, Cersei chose a sunny day and invited Pippin to visit Blackwater Bay with her. They sat on the sun-baked white sand, watching the waves roll over the shore, and shared a pitcher of honeyed mead laced with a powerful opiate. _He will wade out into the waters and find himself sluggish and weak,_ she imagined, _and the sea will swallow him up._   
“The waters are lovely in high summer,” said Cersei, taking a feigned sip of her mead. “I bid you test them for yourself, master hobbit.”   
Pippin chewed on that for a moment. “That _does_ sound nice,” he admitted. “Will you accompany me, Your Grace?”   
Cersei's mouth twisted. “This is thirty-five pounds of silk and Myrish lace,” she said, gesturing to her gown. “I could never – ”   
Pippin interrupted with a yawn. “Thirty-five pounds? I bet you would make a good pillow,” he joked sleepily.   
Cersei's mouth flew open. _The gall!_ “Go, now, and enjoy the water,” she urged. “Quickly.” _Before you fall asleep._   
“What rush is there?” He peered at her through drowsy, slanted eyes. “I am sorry, Your Grace, but I don't think I will swim. I am suddenly seized by a terrible lethargy!”   
_He dares question me?_ “I am sure it will pass, my halfling friend. Go now, into the water, before the day grows cold.”   
“Pardons, Your Grace, but I...” His speech was punctuated by yawns. “...I am just...so very sleepy. Must have been all that mead. Or perhaps those pints I had with luncheon. Do you mind?”   
Brashly, Pippin stretched like a cat and laid his russet-and-golden head upon her lap. His audacity infuriated Cersei.   
“I most certainly do!” she fumed. But Pippin was already fast asleep in the teal-and-sea-foam folds of her skirt.


	4. Chapter 4

Cersei waited, her hands steepled, having sent summons for Pippin for what she hoped would be the last time. She was in no mood for wine or merriment today. She felt utterly defeated – and by a halfling, no less.  
Worse yet, she could not ascertain whether the hobbit was witless and sweet as he seemed, or cunning and cruel. It almost seemed as though he was toying with her. She was loathe to acknowledge that she was not in complete control, a concept that terrified her beyond all reason.  
 _Hobbits really are amazing creatures._  
Who had said that? Uncle Kevan, perhaps? She had heard it somewhere before. Now, it reverberated tirelessly within her head. _I have been outwitted, undone._ She cradled her head in her hands, suddenly exhausted.  
Pippin entered her chambers, cheerful and bright as usual. Cersei regarded him warily.  
“I am certain you know why I have summoned you here,” she said simply.  
“I do not know, Your Grace. Are we going to have another feast? Or go to the seaside again? Or visit with your knightly brother, perhaps?”  
Cersei's eyes flashed darkly. _There it is,_ she thought. _He is toying with me. I am his prey._ “I am tired of this game, Pippin,” she said quietly. “I am ready to discard of pretence, and hear from you the truth. What would you have of me?”  
Pippin cocked his head. “Your Grace?”  
“We both know what you witnessed, halfling,” spat Cersei with malice. “The night I first encountered you. You walked in on my brother and I.”  
“What?” Pippin blinked, then frowned. “ _Oh!_ That. Yes, I remember now.”  
Cersei drew breath to broach the terms of his silence, but then the hobbit said something surprising.  
“Actually,” he said, “I am slighted that you did not invite me.”  
The queen's nostrils flared. “ _Invite_ you?!”  
“Oh, yes. It is one of my very favourite past-times. My cousin and I would do it, on rainy days.”  
 _So that is his game. The hobbit wants to trade secrets._ Cersei smirked. _A deadly game indeed._  
“Mind, I found it somewhat peculiar that you were playing without clothes.”  
Cersei raised an eyebrow. “You...you wear your clothes...during...?”  
The bridge of Pippin's nose wrinkled. “Of course I do. Why wouldn't I? It would be quite queer to do it any other way. Wouldn't it?”  
That gave Cersei pause. What was the halfling talking about?  
“Your Grace,” continued Pip, “I am wounded that you have not yet asked _me_ for a game of leap-frog. Though,” he added playfully, “I'm afraid I must insist that, if we ever do play, we keep our clothes on.”  
Cersei stared at him in stunned silence, unwilling to believe her good fortune. “Leap-frog?”  
Pippin gave her a nod, and Cersei began to laugh. It started deep within her gut and resonated, growing fiercer and louder until she shook with mirth.  
Pippin laughed too, a small, nervous chuckle. “Might we share the jape?” he asked uneasily.  
“My dear hobbit,” purred Cersei, “if you only knew how many times I've tried to have you destroyed!”  
Pippin paled visibly and swallowed hard. “Your Grace?”  
And Cersei smiled for the first time since she had met the unfortunate hobbit – a true, radiant smile; a smile that bespoke indisputable victory. “Get out.”  
Peregrin Took never troubled her again.


End file.
